Book: The Necromancers

R >> Robert Hugh Benson >> The Necromancers




For over an hour no movement was made. She herself sat facing the
fire, Laurie on her left looking towards the cabinet with his back to
the windows, Mrs. Stapleton opposite to her.

An endless procession of thoughts defiled before her as she sat, yet
these too were somewhat remote--far up, so to speak, on the
superficies of consciousness: they did not approach that realm of the
will poised now and attentive on another range of existence. Once and
again she glanced up without moving her head at the three-quarter
profile on her left, at the somewhat Zulu-like outline opposite to
her; then down again at the polished little round table and the six
hands laid upon it. And meanwhile her brain revolved images rather
than thoughts, memories rather than reflections--vignettes, so to
speak,--old Mr. Cathcart in his spats and frock-coat, the look on the
medium's face, there and gone again in an instant as he had heard the
stranger's name; the carved oak stalls of the chancel towards which
she had faced this morning, the look of the park, the bloom upon the
still leafless trees, the radiance of the blue spring sky....

It must have been, she thought, after a little over an hour that the
first expected movement made itself felt--a long trembling shudder
through the wood beneath her hands, followed by a strange sensation of
lightness, as if the whole table rose a little from the floor. Then,
almost before the movement subsided, a torrent of little taps poured
itself out, as delicate and as swift and, it seemed, as perfectly
calculated, as the rapping of some minute electric hammer. This was
new to her, yet not so unlike other experiences as to seem strange or
perturbing in any way.... Again she bent her attention to the table as
the vibration ceased.

There followed a long silence.

It must have been about ten minutes later that she became aware of the
next phenomenon; and her attention had been called to it by a sudden
noiseless uplifting of the profile on her left. She turned her face to
the cabinet and looked; and there, perfectly discernible, was some
movement going on between the curtains. For the moment she could see
the medium clearly, his arms folded, indicated by the white lines of
his cuffs across his breast, his head sunk forward in deep sleep; and
at the next instant the curtains flapped two or three times, as if
jerked from within, and finally rested completely closed.

She glanced quickly at the boy on her left, and in the diffused light
from the other room could see him distinctly, his eyes open and
watching, his lips compressed as if in some tense effort of
self-control.

When she looked at the cabinet again she could see that some movement
had begun again behind the curtains, for these swayed and jerked
convulsively, as if some person with but little room was moving there.
And she could hear now, as the gusts outside lulled for a moment, the
steady rather stertorous breathing of the medium. Then once again the
wind gathered strength outside; the rain tore at the glass like a
streaming handful of tiny pebbles, and the great curtains at her side
lifted and sighed in the draught through the shutters.

When it quieted again the breathing had become a measured moaning, as
that which a dreaming dog emits at the end of each expiration; and she
herself drew a long trembling breath, overwhelmed by the sense of some
struggle in the room such as she had not experienced before.

It was impossible for her to express this even to herself; yet the
perception was clear--as clear as some presentment of the senses. She
knew during those moments, as she watched the swaying curtains of the
cabinet in the shaded light that fell upon them, and heard now and
again that low moan from behind them, that some kind of stress lay
upon something that was new to her in this connection. For the time
she forgot her undertone of anxiety as to this boy at her side, and a
curious terrified excitement took its place. Once, even then, she
glanced at him again, and saw the motionless profile watching, always
watching....

Then in an instant the climax came, and this is what she saw.

* * * * *

The commotion of the curtains ceased suddenly, and they hung in
straight folds from roof to floor of the little cabinet. Then they
gently parted--she saw the long fingers that laid hold of them--and
the form of a person came out, descended the single step, and stood on
the floor before her eyes, in the plain candlelight, not four steps
away.

It was the figure of a young girl, perfectly formed in all its parts,
swathed in some light stuff resembling muslin that fell almost to the
feet and shrouded the upper part of the head. Her hands were clasped
across her breast, her bare feet were visible against the dark floor,
and her features were unmistakably clear. There was a certain beauty
in the face--in the young lips, the open eyes, and the dark lines of
the brows over them; and the complexion was waxen, clear as of a
blonde. But, as the observer had noticed before on the three or four
occasions on which she had seen these phenomena, there was a strange
mask-like set of the features, as if the life that lay behind them had
not perfectly saturated that which expressed it. It was something
utterly different from the face of a dead person, yet also not
completely alive, though the eyes turned a little in their sockets,
and the young down-curved lips smiled. Behind her, plain between the
tossed-back curtains, was the figure of the medium sunk in sleep.

And so for a few seconds the apparition remained.

It seemed to the watcher that during those seconds the whole world was
still. Whether in truth the wind had dropped, or whether the absorbed
attention perceived nothing but the marvel before it, yet so it
seemed. Even the breathing of the medium had stopped; Lady Laura heard
only the ticking of the watch upon her own wrist.

Then, as once more a gust tore up from the south-west, the figure
moved forward a step nearer the table, coming with a motion as of a
living person, causing, it even appeared, that faint vibration on the
floor as of a living body.

She stood so near now, though with her back to the diffused light of
the ante-room, that her features were more plain than before--the
stained lips, the open eyes, the shadow beneath the nostrils and chin,
even the white fingers clasped across the breast. There was none of
that vague mistiness that had been seen once before in that room;
every line was as clear-cut as in the face of a living person; even
the swell of the breast beneath the hands, the slender sloping
shoulders, the long curved line from hip to ankle, all were real and
discernible. And once again the staring eyes of the watcher took in,
and her mind perceived, that slight mask-like look on the pretty
appealing face.

Once again the figure came forward, straight on to the table; and
then, so swift that not a motion or a word could check it, the
catastrophe fell.

There was a violent movement on Lady Laura's left hand, a chair shot
back and fell, and with a horrible tearing cry from the throat, the
boy dashed himself face forwards across the table, snatched at and for
an instant seized something real and concrete that stood there; and as
the two women sprang up, losing sight for an instant of the figure
that had been there a moment ago, the boy sank forward, moaning and
sobbing, and a crash as of a heavy body falling sounded from the
cabinet.

For a space of reckonable time there was complete silence. Then once
more a blast of wind tore up from the south-west, rain shattered
against the window, and the house vibrated to the shock.




_Chapter XIV_


I

As the date approached Maggie felt her anxieties settle down, like a
fire, from turbulence to steady flame. On the Sunday she had with real
difficulty kept it to herself, and the fringe of the storm of wind and
rain that broke over Herefordshire in the evening had not been
reassuring. Yet on one thing her will kept steady hold, and that was
that Mrs. Baxter must not be consulted. No conceivable good could
result, and there might even be harm: either the old lady would be too
much or not enough concerned: she might insist on Laurie's return to
Stantons, or might write him a cheering letter encouraging him to
amuse himself in any direction that he pleased. So Maggie passed the
evening in fits of alternate silence and small conversation, and
succeeded in making Mrs. Baxter recommend a good long night.

Monday morning, however, broke with a cloudless sky, an air like wine,
and the chatter of birds; and by the time that Maggie went to look at
the crocuses immediately before breakfast, she was all but at her ease
again. Enough, however, of anxiety remained to make her hurry out to
the stable-yard when she heard the postman on his way to the back
door.

There was one letter for her, in Mr. Cathcart's handwriting; and she
opened it rather hastily as she turned in again to the garden.

It was reassuring. It stated that the writer had approached--that was
the word--Mr. Baxter, though unfortunately with ill-success, and that
he proposed on the following day--the letter was dated on Saturday
evening--also to approach Lady Laura Bethell. He felt fairly
confident, he said, that his efforts would succeed in postponing, at
any rate, Mr. Baxter's visit to Lady Laura; and in that case he would
write further as to what was best to be done. In the meanwhile Miss
Deronnais was not to be in the least anxious. Whatever happened, it
was extremely improbable that one visit more or less to a _seance_
would carry any great harm: it was the habit, rather than the act,
that was usually harmful to the nervous system. And the writer begged
to remain her obedient servant.

Maggie's spirits rose with a bound. How extraordinarily foolish she
had been, she told herself, to have been filled with such forebodings
last night! It was more than likely that the _seance_ had taken place
without Laurie; and, even at the worst, as Mr. Cathcart said, he was
probably only a little more excited than usual this morning.

So she began to think about future arrangements; and by the time that
Mrs. Baxter looked benignantly out at her from beneath the Queen Anne
doorway to tell her that breakfast was waiting, she was conceiving of
the possibility of going up herself to London in a week or two on some
shopping excuse, and of making one more genial attempt to persuade
Laurie to be a sensible boy again.

During her visit to the fowl-yard after breakfast she began to
elaborate these plans.

She was clear now, once again, that the whole thing was a fantastic
delusion, and that its sole harm was that it was superstitious and
nerve-shaking. (She threw a large handful of maize, with a meditative
eye.) It was on that ground and that only that she would approach
Laurie. Perhaps even it would be better for her not to go and see him;
it might appear that she was making too much of it: a good sensible
letter might do the work equally well.... Well, she would wait at
least to hear from Mr. Cathcart once more. The second post would
probably bring a letter from him. (She emptied her bowl.)

She was out again in the spring sunshine, walking up and down before
the house with a book, by the time that the second post was due. But
this time, through the iron gate, she saw the postman go past the
house without stopping. Once more her spirits rose, this time, one
might say, to par; and she went indoors.

Her window looked out on to the front; and she moved her writing-table
to it to catch as much as possible of the radiant air and light of the
spring day. She proposed to begin to sketch out what she would say to
Laurie, and suggest, if he wished it, to come up and see him in a week
or two. She would apologize for her fussiness, and say that the reason
why she was writing was that she did not want his mother to be made
anxious.

"My dear Laurie..."

She bit her pen gently, and looked out of the window to catch
inspiration for the particular frame of words with which she should
begin. And as she looked an old gentleman suddenly appeared beyond the
iron gate, shook it gently, glanced up in vain for a name on the stone
posts, and stood irresolute. It was an old trap, that of the front
gate; there was no bell, and it was necessary for visitors to come
straight in to the front door.

Then, so swiftly that she could not formulate it, an anxiety leapt at
her, and she laid her pen down, staring. Who was this?

She went quickly to the bell and rang it; standing there waiting, with
beating heart and face suddenly gone white....

"Susan," she said, "there is an old gentleman at the gate. Go out and
see who it is.... Stop: if it is anyone for me ... if--if he gives the
name of Mr. Cathcart, ask him to be so kind as to go round the turn to
the village and wait for me.... Susan, don't say anything to
Mrs. Baxter; it may just possibly be bad news."

From behind the curtain she watched the maid go down the path, saw a
few words pass between her and the stranger, and then the maid come
back. She waited breathless.

"Yes, miss. It is a Mr. Cathcart. He said he would wait for you."

Maggie nodded.

"I will go," she said. "Remember, please do not say a word to anyone.
It may be bad news, as I said."

* * * * *

As she walked through the hamlet three minutes later, she began to
recognize that the news must be really serious; and that beneath all
her serenity she had been aware of its possibility. So intense now was
that anxiety--though perfectly formless in its details--that all other
faculties seemed absorbed into it. She could not frame any imagination
as to what it meant; she could form no plan, alternative or absolute,
as to what must be done. She was only aware that something had
happened, and that she would know the facts in a few seconds.

About fifty yards up the turning she saw the old gentleman waiting.
He was in his London clothes, silk-hatted and spatted, and made a
curiously incongruous picture there in the deep-banked lane that led
upwards to the village. On either side towered the trees, still
leafless, yet bursting with life; and overhead chattered the birds
against the tender midday sky of spring.

He lifted his hat as she came to him; but they spoke no word of
greeting.

"Tell me quickly," she said. "I am Maggie Deronnais."

He turned to walk by her side, saying nothing for a moment.

"The facts or the interpretation?" he asked in his brisk manner. "I
will just say first that I have seen him this morning."

"Oh! the facts," she said. "Quickly, please."

"Well, he is going to Mr. Morton's chambers this afternoon; he
says..."

"What?"

"One moment, please.... Oh! he is not seriously ill, as the world
counts illness. He thought he was just very tired this morning. I went
round to call on him. He was in bed at half-past ten when I left him.
Then I came straight down here."

For a moment she thought the old man mad. The relief was so intense
that she flushed scarlet, and stopped dead in the middle of the road.

"You came down here," she repeated. "Why, I thought--"

He looked at her gravely, in spite of the incessant twinkle in his
eyes. She perceived that this old man's eyes would twinkle at a
death-bed. He stroked his grey beard smoothly down.

"Yes; you thought that he was dead, perhaps? Oh, no. But for all that,
Miss Deronnais, it is just as serious as it can be."

She did not know what to think. Was the man a madman himself?

"Listen, please. I am telling you simply the facts. I was anxious, and
I went round this morning first to Lady Laura Bethell. To my
astonishment she saw me. I will not tell you all that she said, just
now. She was in a terrible state, though she did not know one-tenth
of the harm--Well, after what she told me I went round straight to
Mitre Court. The porter was inclined not to let me in. Well, I went
in, and straight into Mr. Baxter's bedroom; and I found there--"

He stopped.

"Yes?"

"I found exactly what I had feared, and expected."

"Oh! tell me quickly," she cried, wheeling on him in anger.

He looked at her as if critically for a moment. Then he went on
abruptly.

"I found Mr. Baxter in bed. I made no apology at all. I said simply
that I had come to see how he was after the _seance_."

"It took place, then--"

"Oh! yes.... I forgot to mention that Lady Laura would pay no
attention to me yesterday.... Yes, it took place.... Well, Mr. Baxter
did not seem surprised to see me. He told me he felt tired. He said
that the _seance_ had been a success. And while he talked I watched
him. Then I came away and caught the ten-fifty."

"I don't understand in the least," said Maggie.

"So I suppose," said the other dryly. "I imagine you do not believe in
spiritualism at all--I mean that you think that the whole thing is
fraud or hysteria?"

"Yes, I do," said Maggie bravely.

He nodded once or twice.

"So do most sensible people. Well, Miss Deronnais, I have come to warn
you. I did not write, because it was impossible to know what to say
until I had seen you and heard your answer to that question. At the
same time, I wanted to lose no time. Anything may happen now at any
moment.... I wanted to tell you this: that I am at your service now
altogether. When--" he stopped; then he began again, "If you hear no
further news for the present, may I ask when you expect to see Mr.
Baxter again?"

"In Easter week."

"That is a fortnight off.... Do you think you could persuade him to
come down here next week instead? I should like you to see him for
yourself: or even sooner."

She was still hopelessly confused with these apparent alternations.
She still wondered whether Mr. Cathcart were as mad as he seemed. They
turned, as the village came in sight ahead, up the hill.

"Next week? I could try," she said mechanically. "But I don't
understand--"

He held up a gloved hand.

"Wait till you have seen him," he said. "For myself, I shall make a
point of seeing Mr. Morton every day to hear the news.... Miss
Deronnais, I tell you plainly that you alone will have to bear the
weight of all this, unless Mrs. Baxter--"

"Oh, do explain," she said almost irritably.

He looked at her with those irresistibly twinkling eyes, but she
perceived a very steady will behind them.

"I will explain nothing at all," he said, "now that I have seen you,
and heard what you think, except this single point. What you have to
be prepared for is the news that Mr. Baxter has suddenly gone out of
his mind."

It was said in exactly the same tone as his previous sentences, and
for a moment she did not catch the full weight of its meaning. She
stopped and looked at him, paling gradually.

"Yes, you took that very well," he said, still meeting her eyes
steadily. "Stop.... Keep a strong hold on yourself. That is the worst
you have to hear, for the present. Now tell me immediately whether you
think Mrs. Baxter should be informed or not."

Her leaping heart slowed down into three or four gulping blows at the
base of her throat. She swallowed with difficulty.

"How do you know--"

"Kindly answer my question," he said. "Do you think Mrs. Baxter--"

"Oh, God! Oh, God!" sobbed Maggie.

"Steady, steady," said the old man. "Take my arm, Miss Deronnais."

She shook her head, keeping her eyes fixed on his.

He smiled in his grey beard.

"Very good," he said, "very good. And do you think--"

She shook her head again.

"No: not one word. She is his mother. Besides--she is not the
kind--she would be of no use."

"Yes: it is as I thought. Very well, Miss Deronnais; you will have to
be responsible. You can wire for me at any moment. You have my
address?"

She nodded.

"Then I have one or two things to add. Whatever happens, do not lose
heart for one moment. I have seen these cases again and again....
Whatever happens, too, do not put yourself into a doctor's hands until
I have seen Mr. Baxter for myself. The thing may come suddenly or
gradually. And the very instant you are convinced it is coming,
telegraph to me. I will be here two hours after.... Do you
understand?"

They halted twenty yards from the turning into the hamlet. He looked
at her again with his kindly humorous eyes.

She nodded slowly and deliberately, repeating in her own mind his
instructions; and beneath, like a whirl of waters, questions surged to
and fro, clamoring for answer. But her self-control was coming back
each instant.

"You understand, Miss Deronnais?" he said again.

"I understand. Will you write to me?"

"I will write this evening.... Once more, then. Get him down next
week. Watch him carefully when he comes. Consult no doctor until you
have telegraphed to me, and I have seen him."

She drew a long breath, nodding almost mechanically.

"Good-bye, Miss Deronnais. Let me tell you that you are taking it
magnificently. Fear nothing; pray much."

He took her hand for a moment. Then he raised his hat and left her
standing there.


II

Mrs. Baxter was exceedingly absorbed just now in a new pious book of
meditations written by a clergyman. A nicely bound copy of it, which
she had ordered specially, had arrived by the parcels post that
morning; and she had been sitting in the drawing-room ever since
looking through it, and marking it with a small silver pencil.
Religion was to this lady what horticulture was to Maggie, except of
course that it was really important, while horticulture was not. She
often wondered that Maggie did not seem to understand: of course she
went to mass every morning, dear girl; but religion surely was much
more than that; one should be able to sit for two or three hours over
a book in the drawing-room, before the fire, with a silver pencil.

So at lunch she prattled of the book almost continuously, and at the
end of it thought Maggie more unsubtle than ever: she looked rather
tired and strained, thought the old lady, and she hardly said a word
from beginning to end.

The drive in the afternoon was equally unsatisfactory. Mrs. Baxter
took the book with her, and the pencil, in order to read aloud a few
extracts here and there; and she again seemed to find Maggie rather
vacuous and silent.

"Dearest child, you are not very well, I think," she said at last.

Maggie roused herself suddenly.

"What, Auntie?"

"You are not very well, I think. Did you sleep well?"

"Oh! I slept all right," said Maggie vaguely.

* * * * *

But after tea Mrs. Baxter did not feel very well herself. She said she
thought she must have taken a little chill. Maggie looked at her with
unperceptive eyes.

"I am sorry," she said mechanically.

"Dearest, you don't seem very overwhelmed. I think perhaps I shall
have dinner in bed. Give me my book, child.... Yes, and the
pencil-case."

Mrs. Baxter's room was so comfortable, and the book so fascinatingly
spiritual, that she determined to keep her resolution and go to bed.
She felt feverish, just to the extent of being very sleepy and at her
ease. She rang her bell and issued her commands.

"A little of the _volaille_," she said, "with a spoonful of soup
before it.... No, no meat; but a custard or so, and a little fruit.
Oh! yes, Charlotte, and tell Miss Maggie not to come and see me after
dinner."

It seemed that the message had roused the dear girl at last, for
Maggie appeared ten minutes later in quite a different mood. There was
really some animation in her face.

"Dear Auntie, I am so very sorry.... Yes; do go to bed, and breakfast
there in the morning too. I'm just writing to Laurie, by the way."

Mrs. Baxter nodded sleepily from her deep chair.

"He's coming down in Easter week, isn't he?"

"So he says, my dear."

"Why shouldn't he come next week instead, Auntie, and be with us for
Easter? You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Very nice indeed, dear child; but don't bother the boy."

"And you don't think it's influenza?" put in Maggie swiftly, laying a
cool hand on the old lady's.

She maintained it was not. It was just a little chill, such as she had
had this time last year: and it became necessary to rouse herself a
little to enumerate the symptoms. By the time she had done, Maggie's
attention had begun to wander again: the old lady had never known her
so unsympathetic before, and said so with gentle peevishness.

Maggie kissed her quickly.

"I'm sorry, Auntie," she said. "I was just thinking of
something. Sleep well; and don't get up in the morning."

Then she left her to a spoonful of soup, a little _volaille_, a
custard, some fruit, her spiritual book and contentment.

Downstairs she dined alone in the green-hung dining-room; and she
revolved for the twentieth time the thoughts that had been
continuously with her since midday, moving before her like a
kaleidoscope, incessantly changing their relations, their shapes, and
their suggestions. These tended to form themselves into two main
alternative classes. Either Mr. Cathcart was a harmless fanatic, or he
was unusually sharp. But these again had almost endless subdivisions,
for at present she had no idea of what was really in his mind--as to
what his hints meant. Either this curious old gentleman with shrewd,
humorous eyes was entirely wrong, and Laurie was just suffering from a
nervous strain, not severe enough to hinder him from reading law in
Mr. Morton's chambers; and this was all the substratum of Mr.
Cathcart's mysteries: or else Mr. Cathcart was right, and Laurie was
in the presence of some danger called insanity which Mr. Cathcart
interpreted in some strange fashion she could not understand. And
beneath all this again moved the further questions as to what
spiritualism really was--what it professed to be, or mere
superstitious nonsense, or something else.

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